Reader,
Who are you here for?
This is a question I’ve been sitting with lately, and it touches so many branches of my life.
When it comes to my writing—who am I here for?
When it comes to the work I do with writers—who am I here for?
And in everyday life, in the quiet and the chaos—who am I here for?
I’m writing this from a cute little cafe, first jotting these thoughts down messily in my notebook, and now sharing them with you.
But the question that’s really lingering just beneath the surface—the one I’ve maybe been avoiding—is this:
In knowing who I am here for, who will I be pushing away?
Who am I saying no to?
Let’s rewind for a moment, back to the fourth grade, 1991 (ish).
I had two best friends. They couldn’t have been more different, and each brought out such different sides of me.
One needed deep emotional connection. She gave love freely and asked for it in return. Every time I turned around, there she was, arms spread wide, already coming in for a hug. She always asked when what I was writing in my "little notebooks" and how I got my ideas for stories. We could also sit side by side in silence and still feel completely seen. We could look at each other and know exactly what the other was thinking. I have many friendships like this today too. Interesting!
My other best friend was my hype woman. Bold, curious, full of energy. She was the one dreaming up wild adventures and pulling me into her world of exploration. Our favourite thing? Hopping on our bikes and riding through tree-lined trails, zipping over rocks and slick mulch. No maps, no well-known routes, we just wanted the surprise of seeing where we ended up.
The three of us got along beautifully.
Until one day, my two besties had a disagreement. It had nothing to do with me, but suddenly I felt that old, heavy pressure to choose.
Who am I really here for?
Even though they were opposites, both friendships gave me space to be fully myself—just in different ways. They challenged me differently, stretched me in different directions. But when I look back now, what stands out is this: they were both drawn to what I offered them uniquely, and I was drawn to what they offered me. It was clear. We were clear.
When I think about the folks I wasn’t naturally drawn to—and who didn’t really see or hear me—we never forced a bond. We just instinctively knew it wasn’t a fit. (Though let’s be real, as kids, we weren’t always the kindest about that lack of connection—ha!)
And that brings me back to now.
When I think about my writing, I want to reach the readers who are deeply curious—about the complexities of love, about the most unexpected types of connection, and about becoming. And when I think about the work I do with writers, that thread is there, too.
I want writers to know that their creative process is theirs alone. That to build it, refine it, maintain it, they have to look at all sides of themselves. Not to choose just one—but to get clear about who they’re here for.
I’ve been thinking about the kind of writers I feel most aligned working with and am best suited to help. It’s no longer enough to just say “I work with writers”.
So here's what I've finally figured out:
I’m here for writers who aren’t afraid to sit with the mess and the beauty of their work. These are the writers who crave a personal, reflective approach to creative support. Not just a checklist or a quick fix, but a real, heart-centred journey back to the core of their writing.
They’re not chasing a publishing timeline just for the sake of it—they’re building something lasting. A sustainable practice that supports them through the seasons of both life and creativity. They’re willing to pause, to ask deeper questions about identity, voice, and values, because they know the answers shape not only their writing—but who they’re becoming through the process.
These writers respect boundaries (mine, theirs, and the boundaries of those around them), understand the value of clear, kind communication, and want to feel seen and held in a space where both challenge and care exist.
They’re looking to reconnect to the joy of writing. Joy as defined by them. That spicy piece that lives underneath the deadlines, the doubts, and the pressure. The joy that reminds them why they started in the first place.
And I think that kind of clarity will naturally call the right people in. The hard part—the part I know I have to let happen—is that it will also push some writers away. And I have to be okay with that. I'm not here to change anyone’s opinion about how to write or to argue for the “right” way to build a creative life. I’m here to support the writers who want to make it work for them—in a way that’s sustainable, rooted, and real.
Oof. That clarity? It’s everything, y’all.
Reflective Question: When it comes to your writing, who are you here for?
with love
Chelene
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